


Paint My Spirit Gold

by Grigiocuore



Category: Psych
Genre: M/M, Photographer Shawn, Rockstar AU, Rockstar!Lassie, Show Business, alternative universe, cocky Shawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/pseuds/Grigiocuore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn Spencer is a Hollywood photographer - and one of the best. Carlton Lassiter is a rising star in country music - and a workaholic with a Romantic Poet morality. Working together is gonna be a living Hell.</p><p> <br/><i>He found Blue Eyes sulking at the bar in front of the studio, probably waiting for his dose of scolding. He tossed the portfolio on his table.</i><br/>"Here, Mr. Lassie-pants."<br/>Lassiter slowly looked up. "What does it mean?"<br/>"The poses." Shawn said. "Black and white, lumberjack mood. Hints of minimal. Absolute lack of Sexy or Badass. I'm not a total idiot. Want to give it a try?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint My Spirit Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small Au I thought about while drooling over an old pic of Tim O with long chestnut hair - dealing with some personal hot topic like art and trust and being too serious about everything.

**Paint My Spirit Gold**

Shawn Spencer had been a celebrity photographer for the past three years. He was basically paid to take photos of pimpled teen idols and make them look decent on album covers and unlike most part of his colleagues, he was perfectly fine with it. Actually he liked it. He _really_ liked it. It combined deception and creativity, and those had always been two of his favorite talents. Moving in Los Angeles after his catastrophic prom night without looking back had been the best stupid decision of his life. It had worked, very well. They had a studio. Big houses. Gus bought the original Captain Kirk's chair or something. Life was good. And it was worth of the clients' hassle too. 

Taking shots of pimpled idols, Shawn Spencer had concluded there are no more than three types of client. The low-maintenance, the high-maintenance, and the high-high-maintenance. 

Of course, Carlton Lassiter was one of the high-high. 

Shawn knew it instantly, as soon as he saw him talking with the producer next to the set. Big sad eyes, mane of hair, jeans shirt way too butch for his pale roundy face. He was standing hunched, arms crossed, looking down at his agent with a vaguely disapproving face. Shawn could almost picture the wet-eyed adoring fans languishing on his album. 

_Oh Hell._

"Ehy, Gus. Wanna introduce me?" 

His best friend was in full business-mode. He wasn't even glaring for the monstrous hour. 

"Sure Shawn. Guys, this is Shawn Spencer, one of our best photographers and my smashed best friend. Shawn, these are Miss O'Hara and" 

"And Mister Carlton Lassiter, I suppose. Hard to miss you these days. I know you made quite an impression at the Country Beat." 

Shawn held out a hand and Mr. Blue Eyes shook it in silence. He had nice hands, large, long-fingered. 

"Hello, Mr Spencer." 

"Call me Shawn." 

"I'd rather not." He said plainly. "However, thanks for the interest. The concert has been yesterday evening, I'm impressed you've already informed about it." 

"Mh, you know" Shawn grinned, tapping the side of his Ray-ban "I'm a bit of a psychic in these things. Sorry for delay, by the way. Usually rock stars aren't so punctual." 

"I do not like that definition, Mr Spencer." 

"Uh. O-kay." 

Actually it didn't fit a bit. Shawn kept observing Lassiter behind the glasses as their managers, _Gus and the dainty blonde with the fiercely high heels,_ kept discussing in tight Business-ese. Mr. Lassiter had a good voice, deep but ever-changing, and he did recognize it from the ballads demos Gus passed him; but he didn't talk like a country singer. More like some sort of grouchy scholar. Standing straight. Shirt tucked in. Kind of shy. 

Shawn was good at classify people, even if he hated being classified. There were names for everyone. There were snarky comments for anything. Not finding the right one on the first go was annoying. 

Disturbing. 

Shawn turned to Gus and Gus understood. Mouthed a big No. Shawn blinked. Gus mouthed a _bigger_ No. 

Shawn started flirting. 

"So, Mister Lassie." 

"Lassiter." 

"It's too long to say." 

"So Carlton." 

"It's too strange to say." Shawn replied. "So, would you like to begin? Right now? Meanwhile my good partner and the adorable Miss, _uh_ , O'Hara-" Said adorable miss fried him on the spot "-could do their magic in the office." 

Lassiter scowled. "Miss O'Hara is not a-" 

"It's all right, Carlton. Don't worry." 

There was a weird exchange of glances between them, something of the protective brother and something of first day of school and not exactly either. 

"I think it's a good idea. You said you want this done fast, right? And you get too bored to be of any use with contracts." She smiled, brushed his arm. "Go play with Mister Spencer. We'll be fine." 

She waited for an approving grunt and followed Gus to the other end of their dashing light-sparkling studio. Shawn turned to Mister Grumpy with a grin. He loved the shooting, and he loved it even more because he was great at it. The lights, his voice behind the camera, that pouty face scowling and pleased by his words. He'd win him. 

"Shall we go?" 

He felt the magic already. 

* 

There was no magic. At all. It was a pain from the start to the end, actually. 

When he turned on the set flashes, Lassiter started to squint and blink like a bewildered raccoon and didn't stop until he dimmed them to a very unpleasant half-shade. He didn't understand any shot reference Shawn proposed. He refused to undo the collar shirt past two buttons from the chin. The whole posing debate went more or less like this. 

"So, it's Rolling Stones cover, mh? Pretty big deal. You want Sexy or Badass?" 

"Sorry?" 

"The pose. Sexy or Badass?" 

"I'm a singer, Mister Spencer." He replied coldly. "I don't think any of that crap would be appropriate." 

"With all due respect, Lassie-" 

"Lassiter-" 

_"But,_ this is my job. And I'm the best at it. Believe me, I know how to make something sell." 

Lassiter's shoulders stiffened. "I'm not something to _sell_ , Spencer." 

Shawn sighed. "Listen, I'm getting kind of tired of the Artist Whining." 

"I _am_ an artist." 

"You write sappy country things. It's much funnier than being an artist." 

Lassiter flinched, blanching further in his ugly lights. "How you dare." He spat out. "How you dare say such things? You're an artist too." 

That took him back a bit. Shawn blinked, laughed behind the camera. "I'm not an artist, Lassie dear. I like taking photos and I'm well paid for it. That's it. And I love selling _me_ , if you wanna know." 

"You're serious?" 

"Of course." 

He watched Mr. Grumpy stiffen further, lips pressed in a small tight line, blue eyes flaming with outrage. Then happened the last thing Shawn would have thought of. 

Lassiter shot on his feet hard enough to knock over the chair. 

"Enough. I'm done." He was stomping down the set. "I said O'Hara it was a bad idea from the start, but this, this is intolerable. I won't let some twerp show me around like a, like a roasted _ham_." 

"Oh, c'mon."Shawn chuckled. "You can't do that. Dude. Dude, you can't. You _can' t._ " 

Hell he was doing it. His latest client proceeded to march across the studio, boots clacking and hair bouncing around. Growling dark curses. Shouldering a poor techie. 

Gus's head popped out of the office, the blonde girl behind him. Shawn was still staring when Blue Eyes slammed the door like a damn diva. 

-Oh, fuck.- 

* 

The day after Shawn woke up with a horrible taste in his mouth. It had nothing to do with Gus's ranting-hissings on the ride to the studio, _it was true, he's saved his pretty ass since first grade, yes, he's an idiot, nah Gus, he's not zoning out at all,_ and neither with the ugly mix of cigarettes and boredom of the night before. The bad taste grew stronger along the day. Shawn felt pretty sure it had something to do with Mr. Blue Eyes. Something he had said. Not the artist part of course, or the roasted ham. But something. 

It was stupid. He was stupid. There was no reason to give it so much thought. No reason at all. He was already forgetting it. Definitively. 

At seven p.m. Shawn somehow found himself at his desk, watching shots and confronting sketches and thinking about lights and filters. Gus brought him coffee. Didn't say anything. 

"Are you smiling?" 

"Not at all Shawn." 

* 

He found Blue Eyes sulking at the bar in front of the studio, probably waiting for his dose of scolding. He tossed the portfolio on his table. 

"Here, Mr. Lassie-pants." 

Lassiter slowly looked up. "What does it mean?" 

"The poses." Shawn said. "Black and white, lumberjack mood. Hints of minimal. Absolute lack of Sexy or Badass. I'm not a total idiot. Wanna give a try?" 

He didn't answer. He shuffled through the sketches, frowning a bit, and watched him again. There was not much room for little games with those eyes. 

"All right. Let's go." 

* 

The second shooting was strange, but in a good way. Shawn had a idea about what he wanted, roaming around in his head, he just had to pin it clearly. 

"In your songs, you talk about memory, right? - I've listened to the album all night, and yes, it's memory. Past, longing, hopeless wanderers roaming in Western wilderness, all that stuff." He said. "So, why not using it? I've found some super-wow filters, and since you have the light-resistance of a panda pup I set the light for some dusky screens - a bit like a lantern feeling, you know?" 

Blue Eyes nodded, said nothing, kept watching him. "Yes. It can do." 

That was the lamest praise Shawn had ever received, but he found himself grinning. 

"Neat. On the set now. I take the camera." 

It went way better than the first day. Lassiter was still as stiff as a pole, but he wasn't grunting at every hint and has a certain thing for the glass. The lights didn't blind him anymore, drew good shadows on skin and eyes. Shawn didn't ask him anymore to unbutton the collar and he stayed like that, blue shirt, _untucked, please_ , cowboy boots hooked to the stool legs. He couldn't smile on cue, but when not scowling he had a gentle face. Shawn worked smoothly, staring at him picking up the guitar, looking in the distance, profile, close-up. He was neither Sexy nor Badass, but it worked. It really worked. 

Shawn kept messing with his camera, even off the set. 

"Ehy, take care with that thing." Lassie growled. "You half-blinded me. And we've been here forever." 

"Shut up." Shawn said. Lassie plunged in the chair next to him, back in the studio office, sipping instant coffee. That wool hair was all ruffled, brushing cheeks, face a bit undone. It was a face only lovers and friends should get to see. 

"What's up?" 

Shawn took some more shoots, smiling. 

"Nothing. Just, stay there." 

The smile was not a photographer's one. 

* 

Of course they ended playing. It was Lassie proposing it, actually, eyes to the ground, fidgeting a bit with his guitar. 

"Just if you'd like to, eh. No pressure. It's not important." 

"No, I’m curious. And it _is_ important, you’re practically bouncing on the spot. Go with it." 

Lassiter made a grin – a small fearful thing, a ten-years-old grin – and tapped fingers on his knee, recalling the melody. The first chords filled the room, slow and steady like a march, and his voice followed. Lassie sang a bit as he talked, somewhere between a lecture and a rant, articulating every word as if aimed to some invisible scholar standing in front of his eyes. But then it changed. The rhythm fastened, the march became a run. Lassie’s voice rose and wavered and kept teaching the invisible scholar about war and love and pity, but now there was hurry there, and anger too. The run was getting closer. The chords went deeper, and the words longer and higher, and his face was flushed, eyes widened, blazing in outrage and pride and everything until suddenly the lecture was a battle cry and it shook the world. 

Shawn listened to the last notes trembling in the air, in silence. Several seconds passed. Lassie’s grimace fell back in place. 

“I knew. You don’t like it. I shouldn’t have-“ 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Shawn had swallowed twice before he could talk. He had planned to add some snarky jokes but suddenly forgot them all. A single questions stayed. 

“Why do you do this, Lassie?” 

"I don't know.” He sighed. “Most times it’s long and boring and I just want to slam it all into the nearest wall. Literally. But I discovered I can’t stop. And when I get it right, when it flows well and the words come, I." 

"You what?" 

Lassie put down the guitar, pulled back a strand of hair, looked at him. "I feel like even if I was born just to write this verse and nothing else, it'd still worth it." 

They smiled at each other without knowing what to say. They were not ready for more. Shawn crossed his legs. 

"C'mon, I want the second verse." 

* 

Some days passed. They hadn't taken photos again, but they had hit some bars together and exchanged numbers. Lassiter still called him Spencer. He smiled a bit more. 

"I must say this has been pretty fun. Gus'll get a stroke when I tell him we have a whole book." 

"O'Hara too." 

"Perfect." 

They grinned over the small pile of cans and mugs on the studio desk. Shawn swirled in his chair. 

"Producers are up to it too. Money for me and glory for you." He switched the pc on, lazily skimmed through files. "Now we just have to add some magic, and we're done." 

Lassie stirred. " Some magic?" 

"Well, yep. Photoshop, touch ups. Execs said shots are good, but depressing. I think the exact word has been _meh._ Don't worry, I'll manage." 

"They, they told you to _pervert_ your photos?" 

Shawn turned back to him. Had stood up, face pale and arms crossed on the chest. He talked very slowly. "Yeah, Lassie." 

"And you've permitted it?" 

"Of course _yes_ , Lassie. It's my freakin' job. What should I have done, fearlessly defend my art?" 

"Yes." 

The answer came fast and with no hesitation. Shawn blinked. "You really think I should have done it?" 

"Of course." Lassie replied. "They told you to wreck your work, Spencer. They told you to pick what you created and to force it into some mortifying, young-ish glossy shape to satisfy their standards. No artist would tolerate that." 

"I told you, Lassie. I'm no artist." 

It was like pulling a switch. Lassiter got paler, froze. "No, no. This is- it's all wrong. When you took those shots, talked about the, filters. It's all wrong. I couldn't believe it was, nothing, nothing real." 

"It was a big job done, so it's very real." 

"You really don't understand?" He licked his lips. "It was a job. A job. I." 

"Could you please explain me why you're so angry?" 

"I trusted you. I thought you've gotten it." Lassiter ran a hand through his hair."I thought you've gotten it." 

"Now let's not get all drama, please." 

"It's not about drama. I thought you could understand.” 

He was standing there, big sad eyes fixed on him, all pouty and crushed. Shawn gritted his teeth. He was no idiot. It was not his fault. He felt the bad taste was back but was already talking. 

"Actually I don’t." 

"So why you’re here, Spencer?” 

“ 'Cause I was not good enough as a broker." 

"Stop _kidding_." 

“I’m _not_.” 

Carlton rubbed his face. His hand was shivering. He ran to Shawn, clasped the desk, breathed hard. 

"Answer me this, Shawn Spencer, this and nothing more." He said. "Are you really doing this thing just for money?" 

"Yes." Shawn lied. 

"Then I suppose we have nothing else to talk about." 

"Ehy, I. Ah. Ehy. Wait. Goddammit, wait-" 

The door slammed closed. Shawn gritted his teeth. When it was clear no one was going to open it again, he kicked hard the drawer. 

* 

Kicking things in rage revealed to be a horrible idea, especially when said things were his own portfolio. Shawn had spent twenty minutes just to recover all the shots from under drawers and couch legs. He could as well sit down at the desk and started to choice options for Shop magic. Fuck Blue Eyes. Fuck him and that stuffy-child head of his. Where did he think to live in, Goodey Fluffy Land? He should know the rules, dammit. The drama scene worked till eighteen, not thirty. Artist Crap too, if you're not Elton John. He should know the rules. 

Look at those photos, for example. They were nice, yeah, and he was kind of glad of some angles, but no fuss. There was nothing important there. If they pay him two greens to flip the whole shots in the sea, he'd do it. No harm done. Even that one, with the foggy filter, and that fucking great idea of the half-close up with the guitar, yes, they didn't mean a thing. He felt his stomach churn because he'd skipped dinner, that's it. 

_Those damn eyes, how much disappointment could be in one pair of eyes?_

Shawn took an angry bite off his Snickers, rummaging through the last shots. They were the ones he'd sneaked after the set. No special set, just black and white. They were nice. _He_ was nice, face bleached in light, black hair and eyebrows and beard. The jerk was pretty photogenic when he forgot to get angry. He picked two suitable ones, discarded the one that got blurry, stared at the other. The world stopped. 

It was one of the few where Lassie was smiling, but not much else. A close-up, he leaning back on the chair, watching right in the camera. It was the same as other six, yet it was perfect. It was the most perfect photo Shawn had ever seen, and it made him smile, it broke his heart. And it was his. He had made it. Shawn stared in silence for ages, tying to breathe, staring at the one most beautiful thing he had ever made. 

He got up and shot through the door before knowing it. 

* 

When Lassie opened his hotel door, Shawn was literally soaking the carpeting. Back at the studio he hadn't noticed that the sky was flooding LA and he was too out of his mind to put on a hood on the ride there. Now he felt shivering in the conditioned air of the corridor and should look like a damp crazy-eyed hobo. 

"Spencer" Carlton squinted "What the Hell-?" 

"You were right." Shawn said. "About that. The photos. I watched them, and, one. It is. I. You were right." 

"Spencer, I'm not getting a single thing." 

"You were right. About me. I thought this was a job, but fuck." Shawn breathed a laugh. "Fuck, it is not. I liked it, and was looking at the shots, and then there was this thing and. It felt right. _I_ felt right, more than any time in my life. For a freakin' photo. And I just had to, to show it to someone. To you." 

"And you rode all the way through this hell of a storm to bring me a photo you could have emailed in less than a second?" 

Shawn smiled under his dripping nose. "I suppose it's one of those dumb Artist things." 

Shawn patted his jacket and handed him the photo, the perfect one. Lassie didn't answer. He kept sharing glances between the shot and Shawn. It was then Shawn looked at him for the first time. A Lucky Charms shirt, bare feet. A fait scent of bath soap hovered around him. He lifted a hand to tuck hair behind his ear, and Shawn followed it all the way down the neck line, the collarbone arching like a wing. 

He breathed in, not looking away. _Oh Shawn you damn fucker_. "I'll send just this one. Fuck them all. This is mine. This is you." 

Lassie took a step closer. "Yes it's true." He said and then was crashing their lips together. His tasted like warmth and coffee. He was tall but easy to hold, and Shawn found his hands fumbling in his hair, slipping under the shirt hem. He was almost biting on Lassie's neck before remembering how to talk. 

"And what's this, Lassie-face?" 

Lassie dragged him forward. "My dumb Artist thing." 


End file.
